


Taking Chances, Looking Past One Off - Quinn's Dreams

by thelastpen



Category: Glee
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastpen/pseuds/thelastpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One off from Taking Chances, Looking Past. After their locker room confrontation, our favorite head cheerleader has a bit of a problem with the way her subconscious decides to replay the scene in her dreams that night. Quinn's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Chances, Looking Past One Off - Quinn's Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for my co-writer of TCLP, the ever lovely BaileyRhapsody. Consider this as occurring the night of the events of Chapter 8 of Taking Chances, Looking Past if you want to know where to fit it in the time line.

"You've embarrassed all of the girls in this school by joining the football team, Rachel." I hiss, ignoring that I'd actually used the her first name, too focused on the warmth of her tanned skin against the backs of my fingers where they were tangled in the strap of her bra, "You could have joined the Cheerios like any other girl would want to do."

"And put up with you and your over the top bitchiness _and_ your crazy coach getting up in my face every day?" Rachel delicate fingers slip around mine, tugging the cotton strap from my grasp before batting my hand away from her chest lightly, playfully. "Thanks but no thanks, I apparently get half of _that_ for free. Maybe you were too busy finding _fault_ and being _embarrassed_ to notice, but I _won_ that game. You're the only one _embarrassed_ that I'm on the team, Quinn."

I feel the snarl curl my lip at her dismissal of me. Why the hell doesn't she understand that I'm worried about her being out on that damn field? "Why don't you use your head and think for once, Berry? Wake the hell up! Those guys don't care! Only Puck was blocking for you out there! You're a girl, dammit!" And those guys are _monsters_ compared to her! "You're going to get _hurt_!"

" _If_ I get hurt, then I get hurt. But, unlike, _some_ people, _I_ am not going to let the fear of something that _might_ happen stop me from doing what I want to do. Now, if you'll _excuse_ me," her hands slip to her pants, untying the laces and quickly stripping out of them along with her socks and shoes, tossing them to the bench leaving herself clad only in grey bikini bottoms and sports bra, my heart racing at the sight, "I'm going to finish getting cleaned up from _winning_ the first game of the season."

With that, she grabs the a bag from her locker and tries storming off. She might have succeeded if my hand hadn't shot out and wrapped fingers around her slim wrist, her tanned skin still slightly damp with sweat from her exertion on the field earlier. I pull her back to me with a jerk of our wrists - no one walks away from Quinn Fabray.

" _Don't_ walk away from me. We're not done here." I stare into her eyes, searching for something - I didn't know what - in those warm brown depths. "This isn't _fear_ of something that _might_ happen. This is _concern_ for something that _will_ happen."

She opens her mouth to protest, but I move my hands to her shoulders and push her back into the lockers with a clang, effectively cutting off any words before they could emerge from between her full lips. "No! You need to listen to me for _once_! One of these days you are going to walk on that field and you are _not_ going to walk off, Rachel! You are going to take a hit and you are going to be _crushed_!"

"Quinn, I honestly believe your fears to be entirely unfounded. I believe I proved to everyone's satisfaction that I am fully capable of holding my own on the field. No one was able to lay a finger on me."

My hands tangle in her bra straps again - I can't help that they're the only things I can dig my fingers into - and jerk her close to my face again. "That is _stupid_ , Rachel. There's always someone better, someone _faster_ and Puck can't block _everyone_. You got _lucky_ tonight, dammit!"

Her hands curl around my wrists. They feel warm against my skin. She always feels warmer than me, the heat of her touch racing out from the point of contact until I'm flushed with her heat.

"I assure you, you are overreacting, Quinn." Her voice sounds lower than normal, a husky ripple of sound against my ears that sets my heart to racing in my chest.

I can feel my nostrils flaring, my breath coming fast at my irritation at her continued dismissal of my concerns. They're legitimate, dammit! "I'm not _overreacting_ , Rachel! I don't want to watch you get _killed_ out there! Do you understand what I'm _saying_?"

"Really, Quinn, you're being quite ridiculous -"

I can't take it any more. I can't erase the image that had snuck into my mind watching her being chased down the field by those giant brutes. She looked so _tiny_ and fragile and they looked so big that I couldn't see anything but her broken body being carried off the field after they'd slammed into her. I just kept _seeing_ her lying there, not moving, and it terrified me, wrapping my heart in an icy fist that wouldn't let me go. She doesn't understand - she _can't_ \- and I just _can't stand it_!

I push her up against the lockers with a low growl of frustration, pressing my body into her until there's not an inch of space between us - reassuring myself with my hands that she's okay, that she's not hurt. That the images in my head are just the product my fevered imagination. I stare into her eyes, needing her to understand my fear, to know the terror I felt knowing that any minute she'd be gone - wiped from the field and my life by a clumsy oaf who didn't know his own strength.

My hand slip up to the sides of her face, my fingers tangling in her dark hair - relishing the chance to feel the silken locks sliding across my skin. The tips of my fingers curl about the back of her head, pulling her face up to mine. Our lips meet with crushing force, a bruising thing of teeth and pressure.

Her hands disappear from my wrists and for a moment I feel a pang of loss strike through me before I feel her hands on the back of my head, fingers tugging at the band holding my ponytail back. There's a rush of relief as the pressure of the tight hairstyle is relieved and my blonde hair comes tumbling down to frame our faces. Her fingers rake through my hair, rough caresses of fingernails on my scalp that send shivers of pleasure through me and draws a guttural moan from my lips.

I cleave to her, our bodies molding together from knee to ankle as if they were always meant to be so, pressing against the cool steel of the lockers at her back. Our hands roam, touching, caressing, feeling like we can't get enough. Her tongue slips out, stroking along the crease of my lips, asking for acceptance that I am only to happy to give her.

I feel the butterfly brushing of her fingers fumbling at the zipper to my top, hear her soft whine of frustration as she fails to flick the hidden pull out of its hiding place. I smile against her lips at her aggravation with my uniform, my hand leaving her body to brush over her hand and free the pull, tugging it up my side. We part long enough for me to lean away, her hands sliding under my top and over my abdomen and higher, pushing the top with her as she reached ever higher, nimble fingers playing over sensitive skin.

My muscles tremble and I can't help the groan slipping from my lips the the feeling of her tiny hands and fingers caressing the sides of my breasts through my bra, thumbs brushing ever so lightly over the stiffening points. The stiff polyester rubs against my chin for a moment before I close my eyes, grasping it and tearing it off over my head - barely wincing as a couple strands of hair catch in the zipper and pull free - tossing the red and white top aside. Before my hands can come back to her or my eyes open, I feel myself being pushed back - the cinderblock wall rough against my bare skin - my bra being pushed roughly up and a feeling of moist warmth encompassing a nipple sucking lightly.

I arch my back at the sensation, head falling back against the wall. But this isn't what I wanted, doesn't show her my fear. I bring myself back under control with an effort, raising trembling hands to her shoulders and pushing her away, her lips slipping from my breast with a brazen pop. I step forward as I push her, following her up against the lockers again, my hands clawing at her bra, pushing it up and over her head, dropping it to the floor once her arms are free.

I love the feel of her under me, her bare skin against mine, the way she trembles, shakes and moans at my touch. I lave the column of the talented throat with lips, teeth and tongue, smiling into her skin as she writhes against me, panting my name into my ear. I palm one of her small breasts, enjoying the feel of her nipple hardening against the center of my palm as I squeeze, the way it fit in my hand as if it was made for my touch - the perfect shape and size. She fits me.

When my teeth slip against her earlobe, lips wrapping around and sucking lightly, she groans, bucking her hips against me. I laugh - a low soft chuckle - into her ear, fingers lightly trailing down her taut abdominal muscles to run carefully just under the edge of the waistband of her underwear. She keens her protest at my teasing into my mouth, her hands clutching the sides of my face, fingers molding to my jaw and ears, pressing me into her.

I cannot resist her further. My hand slides past this final barrier, cupping her warmth with a tenderness I hadn't started this dance with. She presses against my hand hungry for the relief only I can give her, fingers turned into claws as she clutches my shoulders, my back, leaving bright marks on my pale skin. I cherish this feeling, savoring the sound of her voice pleading, whispering, imploring me with quiet desperation, breath warm and sweet against my ear, her body slick with the sweat of the passion my touch has driven her to.

My fingers dip lightly into her wet folds, astonished at the sign of her arousal soon coating my hand as I toy delicately with her clit, addressing it with only the lightest of touches. She growls into my shoulder where her face is now buried. "Please, Quinn. Please."

At her soft words, driven from her normally perfect pitch to beg _me_ , I groan and allow a single finger to tease her entrance for a moment before slipping easily inside. Her nails rake against my back and I know I'll be sore for at least a week, but it's worth it to feel the slick warmth of her body clenching around me. At that moment, I know why guys want sex so much - the feeling of filling her, of making her _mine_ with my touch, is beyond exciting.

She bucks against me, setting a rhythm and pace that I do my best to follow, soon sliding a second finger into her, enjoying the shudder that races through her entire body as I do. We dance against one another up against cold steel lockers in the abandoned locker room, my original intent long forgotten in finding her pleasure at my hands. I can tell by the way her muscles clench against me, the erratic pattern of her breaths, that she is close to completion.

I will not deny it. I want her to lose herself at my touch, to come undone in my embrace. I want her to be mine. Mine in a way I have never desired anything. And so I increase the pace of the stroke of my fingers in and out of her body, the pressure of my palm against her clit, and then - just as she approaches the point of no return - I bite her earlobe gently and whisper.

"Come for me, Rachel."

She breaks then, body tensing, muscles quivering as the orgasm rushes through her. I watch with eyes that I know are dark with arousal at the sight. _I_ have done this to her. _My_ touch, my voice. _Me_. Not Finn. Not Puck or Jesse St. Jackass. _Me_. Quinn Fabray. And I love it.

I draw my hand from her as she clings to me, wiping the clinging residue of her passion on a towel draped across the bench. I hold her as she trembles thought the last vestiges of her orgasm, rubbing my hands against her arms and back, helping her stay on her feet. I lean down as she starts to calm and whisper into her ear.

"Will you quit the football team now? For me?"

She looks up at me with a smile, chocolate eyes still cloudy with lingering arousal. I smile back, certain that I will get the answer I've been desiring. I'll get her a try out with the Cheerios if she wants to be on a team so bad - we could use her drive and I have to admit that I'd love to see what she looks like in our uniforms - anything but the football team. When she answers, her voice is soft, so I lean down so she can whisper in my ear with that delicious smile.

"No."

* * *

I awake with a shriek of frustration and outrage. All of that, _all of that_ , and she has the _audacity_ to tell me no? I give her the most _amazing_ orgasm ever and she tells me _no_?

It isn't until my mother knocks timidly on the door to my bedroom to ask if everything's okay that I realize I've been dreaming. That none of that had occurred. That I'd actually just let her walk away in real life.

The next shriek is even more outraged if possible.


End file.
